Bella’s Birth – Shift Three

One of the last things Jenni did before taking off was introduce us to our next nurse. Saturday morning a friend had suggested to us that we have Arabella’s footprint stamped on Psalm 139 in my Bible. Before going to the hospital, in discussing the possible scenario of saying goodbye to Bella, Jeff and I had already decided to read this Psalm over our dear, perfectly formed daughter in the few hours she had on earth. Consequently, we fell in love with the idea of having her print forever stamped on this Psalm. On each shift, we had made this request known to our nurses.

So when Jenni got to recommend the nurse for our next shift, she chose the nurse famous for capturing the best footprints. The thoughtfulness behind this gesture still makes me misty eyed.

And so we met Nobuko, our third, and last nurse in the delivery process. And we got to introduce our Arabella Grace, as well as the multitude praying for her, to Nobuko. We told Nobuko that once the shift change was done we wanted to go ahead with the epidural.

I knew once the epidural was placed food would be forbidden, so while the shift change huddles were happening, Kristin and Deb (freshly awoken from a few hours of sleep on a much too short hospital couch) came back for a glamorous breakfast ordered off of the hospital menu. Kristin can attest to the glamour – after almost finishing her parfait she discovered a little guest, or shall we say added protein, nestled in the yogurt.

We were just finishing up breakfast when a mass of doctors, residents, and students filed into the room for the first round of the day. We reported our understanding of the current situation, and expected to hear a similar plan to what had been discussed at the end of the last shift.

But with a new shift came fresh ideas and a new perspective. The attending announced they had a new idea for how to proceed. They could attempt to pierce my bag of waters with a long needle, creating a very slow drip of fluid. This slight drip would allow the head to slowly descend into position, and would avoid the gush of fluid that could send the cord flying out prematurely. However, there was the risk in doing this that even the slight needle prick could result in an immediate rupture, and a cord prolapse. Consequently, they would want me to have the epidural first. They would have the operating room (conveniently located right next door) and the staff at the ready for an emergency c-section should that become necessary.

Looking back, I’m slightly amazed that this proposed plan didn’t immediately lead to a fearful heart. It was a bold, somewhat risky plan. In fact, in talking to a nurse later in the day we discovered this is rarely discussed with the position Arabella was in – and that nurse had never seen them actually attempt the procedure.

But in that moment, the Lord granted great peace and confidence to me, and when I looked at Jeff I saw no hesitation or fear in his face either. Instead there was the quick exchange of looks, the meeting of eyes in which no words are necessary, and a response of “Let’s go for it,” to the doctors.

The room emptied and Deb, Kristin and I decided Jeff needed another brief respite from the hospital room. And so he was sent on a coffee run. We knew the anesthesiologist would arrive any moment for my epidural, but seeing how my husband has a severe irrational fear of needles, I knew he would be rather grateful to miss that process. Kristin promised to hold my hands through it all, and Jeff (with perhaps a deep sigh of relief) set off on his errand.

And so it happened that it was Kristin holding my hands as that long needle was placed in my back. The benefit of being in a teaching hospital was that I got to hear the resident talked through the entire placement by the attending. I might suggest on the comment card that in such situations the patient be provided with ear phones.

But pretty soon the drugs were flowing and my contractions were muted. However, this epidural was different from the last with Eliana from the start. I never really lost movement or control of my legs, and the “needle prick” test revealed I could still feel a fair bit. But, for the moment, the epidural provided a bit of relief allowing for a brief period of rest for me and my recently returned husband. I had had about twenty minutes of sleep in the previous thirty hours, so welcomed the chance to shut my eyes.

This rest was short-lived though, as the team soon returned to attempt their needle prick. The large procedure light was lowered, trays of instruments unwrapped, gowns brought in for my husband and Kristin should we be making a quick trip to the OR.

And this is when fear began to set in. They did one last ultrasound to check the position of the head and the cord, giving me one last glimpse of my daughter in utero. All of a sudden the weight of it all came rushing over me. The fact that we were moving very close to delivery. The fact that we were attempting something that could send my daughter out in a rush. The fact that within a very short time period I could be holding – and saying goodbye – to this one I had nurtured and loved and protected over the last nine months. And all of a sudden I could no longer guarantee that nourishment and protection. I remember looking at my husband with tears and fear and saying repeatedly, I just want her to be safe, I just want her to be safe.

The needle ended up not working. Bella was hanging out so high up the needle wasn’t quite long enough. And so they decided to use the hooked end of the device they use to place internal monitors on a baby’s head. This worked. Exactly as hoped. The water started trickling out. The attending sat with her hands inside monitoring that. Another – was it a resident? – had her hand there to feel for the cord. And then a nurse (Tami from the previous day) at the same time worked on emptying my bladder with a cath. The attending commented that this might be a record for number of things being done simultaneously in you know where.

The end result of the procedure was exactly what they had hoped. My bag of waters emptied, Bella’s head securely down in the birth canal. The promise that now things would likely move rather quickly.

I look at the picture above, and I feel the weight of the moment all over again. I feel the battle for peace and faith and trust. I hear the words of truth playing in the background. The songs that will forever take me back to the sixth floor of the University of Washington Medical Center. I hear my husband, voice quivering with emotion, encourage me with, “We’re so close. It’s almost time to meet her!”

It was soon after this that the contractions started to intensify. The anesthesiologist had warned me to not be shy about staying on top of the pain by boosting my dose with my little hand held pain muting clicker. And so I clicked away. But continued to feel the contractions stronger and stronger.

I apparently was not so skilled at hiding the increase in pain, and Nobuko was soon asking if I wanted the anesthesiologist to come back and up my dose. I expressed my concerns to Nobuko – I could sense I was close to delivery, and knew I would be more effective if I could feel my contractions. However, the pain was getting rather severe and taking the edge off sounded quite appealing at the moment. She sent off for the doctor and said he could just give me a half dose.

From this point on, I know there was a lot of activity in the room. But honestly, I was completely oblivious to it. And looking back, I think that pain was a gift. I was so focused on breathing through each contraction, on participating in the work my body was doing, that there was no room left for contemplation or fear or anticipation. The pain forced me into a razor sharped focus on just delivering this child.

 

I know the anesthesiologist came back and gave me a booster. I know that didn’t do much. I know at some point the room started to fill with people and equipment. I know at some point my husband and Kristin gowned up so they would be able to accompany Bella to the infant stabilization room (an unexpected surprise – we had previously been told that no one could go with when they first took Bella).

I remember the pain intensifying and turning to Tami and saying, I think it’s time to push. I know my husband was somewhere near the head of the bed, but I don’t remember any interaction with him at this point. I remember being forehead to forehead with Tami, her encouraging and spurring me on.

I remember two pushes. And then on the third, Tami telling me – “This is it – she’s here!”

And then.

And then the room was filled with the most beautiful scream I’ve ever heard.

It was exactly as I had dared and feared to hope. A strong, fierce scream from my little warrior girl. There is at least some hope – I believe was my first thought. Followed quickly by, I must touch my daughter. And so I reached out and held my daughter’s hand for a brief moment, as they cut the lifeline that had connected us and nourished her.

And then, just like that, they were pulling her away from my hand. Jeff and Kristin hurried out after her, and I was left. Left with doctors and nurses massaging my belly. Left with an emptiness and a prayer and a hope.

I let a few moments pass before I managed to squeak out, “Can someone please go check on my daughter and let me know what’s happening?”

The medical student left. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

She returned rather quickly. “Your daughter is perfectly pink and screaming. They’re going to bring her back to you in just a few minutes!”

I wish there had been someone there to capture my face in that moment. You see I had read the stories of many mamas who had only had brief hours with their babies. I had read about babies that came out screaming, but hours later went to meet Jesus. So it wasn’t until this moment that I dared to believe what my heart was so desperately hoping for. And in that moment my head fell back on the pillow with sobs of relief and joy and gratefulness and disbelief and exhaustion. I was no longer aware of the pushing and stitching and repairing happening to my body.

And then, after recovering a bit from the emotion of it all, the next thing I thought to ask was, “How many fingers and toes does she have?”

You see, it was what was thought to be extra digits spied on the ultrasound that led to that second terminal diagnosis. And so this question that is often posed as a joke, was one of absolute seriousness on that day. The doctors in the room were unsure – I’d have to wait for my husband’s return to find out.

But I didn’t have to wait long. Jeff and Kristin entered with a triumphant – “She scored 9’s on her apgar! She’s seven pounds!” Before I knew it my daughter was in my arms. Living, breathing. Breathing deep beautiful breaths. Eyes wide open fixed on my face. And it all seemed too good to be true. I kept waiting for something to happen. For breath to become labored. For lips to turn from beautifully pink to blue. For someone to snatch her away as she started to decline. Not sure whether to weep or laugh or scream or sing at the wonder and impossibility of it all.

Arabella Grace came screaming into the world at 12:32pm. By 1:15 the room had cleared out and I was feeding her for the first time (as well as ordering food for myself – first multi-tasking moment of motherhood times two). Soon after we were introducing her to big sister, and then to the grandparents. Instead of brief moments to soak in and then forever goodbyes, there were brief greetings and anticipation of future days of cuddling, and toddling and watching a child grow.

And then Nobuko made her footprints she’s famous for. She stamped a foot, a pink, warm, wiggly foot, into my bible. Forever imprinting this child as wonderfully made. Printing a reminder that the Lord alone knits and the Lord alone knows the number of days in a life.

There were no words then. There are no words now. Kristin overheard the nurses chatting in the hallway. Talking about this birth. A birth that was one of the most remarkable they’ve witnessed, one that is truly unforgettable. As we were wheeled down to the maternity ward, babe wrapped in my arms, free of all wires, tubes and monitors, the nurses we passed on that sixth floor teared up at the sight of us. We all knew we had witnessed something extraordinary. A glimpse of the healing breath of heaven made manifest on this earth.

It’s a wonder I have to remind myself of during those long, frequent nighttime feedings. Remind myself of when the toddler is needy and the baby is crying and I’m tired and pulled and stretched thin. Remind myself of the remarkable grace of it all. The grace of every breath my daughter breathes. It’s your breath in her lungs.

And now that you’ve journeyed through words, I invite you to journey through picture. Kristin put together this short montage of that oh so special twenty six hours at the University of Washington. You were there in spirit, now see what your prayers worked to fruition. (Click to play – video will open in another window.)

I’ll be back soon with a few more graces bestowed in the hours and days following Bella’s birth, as well as a bit about what lies before our sweet girl.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. ~ Ephesians 3:20-21